


Dear Bucky

by elle1991



Series: The Stucky Letters [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Awesome Clint Barton, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Boys In Love, Character Death, Character Study, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton's Farm, Coming Out, Coping, Courage, Death, Depression, Don't copy to another site, Drowning, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Epistolary, Feelings, Feels, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Rights, Gay Steve Rogers, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Healing, Heartache, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Letters, Loneliness, Loss, Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Steve Rogers, Past Character Death, Pining, Pining Steve Rogers, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Psychological Trauma, Psychology, Recovery, Reflection, Sad, Secret Relationship, Self-Harm, Steve Rogers Angst, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Team as Family, Tragedy, Trauma, True Love, Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991/pseuds/elle1991
Summary: Love is hard, and endings are harder. Perhaps what is worst though, is the feeling of having lost out on so many years together. Endings are not the clean, tidy things that you read in books or see in films. In real life, endings are messy - and in Steve's case, it is messier than most.Dear Bucky is a series of love letters written by Steve Rogers for Bucky Barnes, immediately following on from the events ofDear Steve.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Cooper Barton & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Laura Barton & Steve Rogers, Lila Barton & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: The Stucky Letters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564600
Comments: 180
Kudos: 119





	1. 17 August 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely readers,
> 
> This story has been in the works for a while, so I'm thrilled to finally be ready to share it with you all.
> 
> Before you start reading, please be aware that this story will cover some heavy themes, so please read the tags if you have any triggers. I will be providing information and links to support resources/organisations in the chapter end notes whenever a difficult subject is raised, but please read at your own discretion and take care of yourselves if any of the tags are potentially triggering for you.
> 
> Also, please be aware that this story directly follows on from the end of [Dear Steve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904116/chapters/49691990). If you've not read that already, I strongly recommend doing so first, otherwise this story will not make a whole lot of sense!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story!
> 
> Love,  
> elle1991

Dear Bucky,

Today, I attended your funeral.

You have no idea how surreal it feels for me to write that, much less how surreal it felt to attend the funeral of a 93-year-old version of you.

I walked to the Cemetery of the Evergreens in a daze, where an outdoor funeral had been organized for you. The day was beautiful – perfect sunshine, with wreaths of white lilies laid out delicately, and birdsong that could make you forget that you're in the middle of New York City. There were rows of chairs lined out for you, and dozens of men and women dressed in black whom I didn't recognize. I sat alone. Some people looked at me curiously, but I didn't want to talk to them. I looked straight ahead, paralyzed by that feeling of unreality, and let the sound of them talking wash over me like a balm.

The first thing I knew of your arrival was when they all fell quiet. Isn't it strange, how silence has a weight to it, a tangibility, almost a physicality? Four pallbearers carried your coffin silently between them. We all twisted around to look as they carried you to the front where a small stage had been set up for the ceremony. It was a simple coffin – just polished wood with gold-colored handles, draped with the American flag. I locked eyes with it, and could not look away.

I couldn't believe you were in there. Even as I stared at it, it did not feel real. I felt numb, as if I half-believed that the coffin was empty and that you were going to sneak up behind me and shout "Boo!"; as if it were all a prank, and that you would be 27 years old again, just as I remember you being, a few weeks ago in 1945. None of it felt real. It felt like a trick, and yet I knew that no one could be cruel enough to concoct a trick like this, and I felt crushed. I was too shocked to cry. It almost felt as though I were having an out-of-body experience. I felt numb, as if I were someone else, attending some stranger's funeral. I did not want to believe that the person inside the coffin was you.

A vicar walked up onto the stage and began the proceedings. He told us that we were gathered there to commemorate the long life of James Buchanan Barnes, and I wanted to scream. Because you hated the name James. Because you always went by Bucky. Because this 97-year-old who he kept referring to could not possibly be you. I was taken by the irrational urge to walk to the front and fling open the lid of your coffin, to prove to them that they were wrong, that you were not there. I didn't. I sat there, my heart beating fast and that heavy feeling of wrongness and unreality pinning me to my seat. Eventually, the urge to scream passed. The vicar droned on, and I tuned out.

And then, a young blonde woman called Sharon walked onto the stage and began to talk about her Great-uncle Bucky. She was on the verge of tears, a pale blue handkerchief clutched in her hands, but when she spoke, she spoke with so much love in her voice that everyone took a collective, gentle gasp. She talked about how the two of you had kindled up a friendship after meeting at Peggy's funeral. She talked about how she would come to visit you in the care home every other weekend, and how you would read her stories or tell her about the old days. She told us how you helped her research her family tree. She told us how, growing up, her favorite weekends were those she got to spend with her Great-uncle Bucky. She talked about how you remained a loyal friend to your ex-wife, to Peggy, right up until the end – and I think that's when it hit me: this sudden realization that you lived a whole other life.

You lived an entire life, a rich and happy and full life, and I wasn't part of it. Because of my stupid, reckless decision to crash the Valkyrie, we missed out on our years together. While I lay sleeping in the ice, you lived and loved and grew old. I did not get to spend those years with you. I did not get to grow old with you.

We lived our lives apart, and that, finally, is what broke through the numbness and made me cry.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190059955011/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3
> 
> THOUGHTS: Posting a new story is always a daunting experience... so your feedback (especially if it's positive) would be much appreciated! What do you think so far? Are you enjoying it? Are you sobbing at your screen? Or both? Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> TEASER: Chapter 2 will see Steve make a pretty terrible decision and will be posted next weekend... “See” you then :) 
> 
> TUMBLR: I am on Tumblr under the name [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/). Feel free to have a nosy around my blog!


	2. 24 August 2011

Dear Bucky,

It's been one week since we buried you, and it's still so hard to accept that you're gone.

Last night, I dreamed of you. We were together, in bed. It was dark, but we could feel one another in the darkness. You were warm in my hands, and I was warm in yours. We were making love, you inside me, me inside you, on and on until I couldn't be sure where one of us ended and the other began. We were one, and we were whole. I touched your face and traced the shape of your features. You smiled and kissed me. I told you that I loved you, again and again, until the words stopped sounding like words and simply became sounds. I wrapped you up in my arms and you cradled me in yours. It was bliss, to touch you again, to make love to you again, to finally say those words, over and over, that we never got the opportunity to say in real life: _I love you, I love you._

I woke up, and for a moment, the dream didn't dissipate. I fooled myself into thinking that you really were there, lying next to me in the dark, beautiful and youthful and alive, just like back in 1945. Just for an instant, I believed that you were there, warm and solid next to me, and it was euphoria. And then... you were gone. The dream faded, the warmth melted away, as did the feeling of your presence. I was taken by a desperate urge to say those words out loud, to tell you, for real, just how much I love you – but it was too late. I am sixty-six years too late for that...

I hate myself. I hate that I crashed the Valkyrie and left you alone. I have read all your letters, and reading them hurts like a physical pain. Because it's clear how much you suffered after I disappeared. You spent years searching for me, putting yourself through fresh agony every day as you scoured the ocean floor, trying and failing to find me. Even after you moved on and married Peggy, it feels as though you still pined for me, as though you still missed me and longed for me to come home. I feel as though I ruined your life, and I cannot put into words how sorry I am for that. I hate that I did that to you. I hate that I cast such a shadow over your life, that I stopped you from being happy, that I left you at all in the first place. None of it is fair. You deserved so much more than the life you got. You did not deserve to suffer the way you did.

I lay there for a while, my eyes adjusting to the pale light from the breaking dawn, with those thoughts spiralling around in my head. After a while, I could no longer bear it, and I decided to go out for a run. I just needed to do something. My apartment felt stifling, just me and my thoughts and nothing else to break the silence. I put on some new clothes that don't feel like my own, and left my apartment block almost at a sprint. I didn't warm up properly; it hurt, to push my body like that, but I kind of liked it. To feel some physical pain at least took my mind off thinking about you. I went about five miles without stopping, and that's when I met the drunk.

He was a sad, pathetic figure – clothes filthy and torn and stinking of booze and piss. He was harmless really, which makes me all the more ashamed of what happened next. He called out my name, and I stopped. He said he recognized me from the newspapers and asked if I was Captain America. I said I was. He began singing that stupid old tune from the adverts – _The Star Spangled Man With A Plan!_ – and asked me to sing it for him. I told him I wasn't interested, but he kept on pestering me, getting in my face, his breath filling my nostrils, inebriation taking away his concept of personal space. I wasn't in the mood for singing. I told him firmly no, and pushed him away, and he lashed out. It was a reflex, I suppose, self-defense drilled into him from years of living rough on the streets. He hit out at me, and I just... snapped.

All that pent-up emotion exploded. Grief for you. Grief for my own life, forever changed. Anger and frustration and self-hatred at having crashed the Valkyrie and wasted sixty-six long years, frozen, as you grew old and the rest of the world moved on. Suddenly, I was furious. I raged against all those lost years, and I beat him. For the first time in my life, I used violence not as a last resort or for self-defense, but to attack, for the pleasure of it, to appease my own whirling emotions, for selfishness. I beat him to the ground and was punching him hard enough to break ribs, if it weren't for his thick, padded coat. I was wild, savage, like an animal. A cop car, thank God, must have been passing, because the next thing I knew, there were strong hands pulling me away, metal wrapped tight around my wrists as I was dragged away from the man.

I am writing this letter from the cell of a police station. I have been told, thankfully, that I did not kill him, that he has not even sustained any broken bones or serious injuries, thanks to the thickness of his coat. It is a miracle. Right now, I am numb. It feels like a dream. I do not want to believe that this is reality. I do not want to live in a world where you are dead and I am capable of nearly beating an innocent man to death. I am trapped inside a nightmare. I do not want it. I do not.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190201575326/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3
> 
> THANK YOU: Wow, thank you all for such a positive response to chapter 1! Reading all your comments saying you're excited for this story is the most fantastic encouragement any writer could wish for :)
> 
> THOUGHTS: Gosh, Steve is in a real state, isn't he? Whilst anger is a normal and natural response to grief, we should never take it out on other people. There are plenty of other ways to let out that pent-up frustration, stress and anger: punching a pillow, screaming, vigorous exercise, etc. What Steve did was wrong. As always, please let me know your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see the police decide what they're going to do about Steve...
> 
> TUMBLR: I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you feel like being friendly and saying hi to me over there! <3


	3. 25 August 2011

Dear Bucky,

The police released me without pressing any charges.

They said they were making an exception for me this one time only, because the man whom I had beaten up had suffered no lasting injuries and had requested that I not be punished. They said they understood that I must be under a tremendous amount of stress, after waking up from the ice, that I was understandably finding it hard to adjust, but that it would get easier. I wanted to scream. They don't understand. How could they? Have any of them ever gone to sleep and woken sixty-six years into the future? Have any of them found themselves utterly lost in time? I bit my tongue and did not answer back. They filled out some paperwork and I was free to go.

I left the police station feeling like a worm. I am completely ashamed by my behavior. I do not recognize this person, this man, who would beat up a harmless alcoholic just because I couldn't keep a handle on my emotions. I am shocked and disgusted in myself, to have lost control of myself so completely, to have harmed an innocent man. I am revolting, and I am revolted in myself. I feel as though I am going insane. I know you would never want me to behave like this. You were always a dignified and moral man. Yes, you were a soldier, and yes, you fought off guys when they were attacking me before I had the serum – but you only used violence when it was absolutely necessary. You only ever raised your fists when it was necessary to protect yourself, or to protect me. You never fought for the pleasure of it, or to make yourself feel better. You were a better man than me.

I spent the next few hours wandering the streets around Brooklyn. I was not ready to return to my silent, empty apartment, so I walked, and walked, and walked. It was a surreal experience. The streets were so familiar, yet totally alien. I recognized the buildings, but I didn't know any of the people. I watched the cars, so sleek and futuristic and nothing at all like cars from 1945. I stared at people's clothing, stunned at just how much fashion has changed since when we were young. I had to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from screaming.

After a while, I found myself at the Cemetery of the Evergreens. I was half-surprised to find myself there, but I should have known; everything always leads back to you. I went to your grave, to where you were buried just over a week ago, and it began to rain. Isn't it strange, how a place can seem completely different just through a change in the weather? When we buried you, when we celebrated your life, it was glorious and sunny. And now, as I stared at your gravestone eight days later, rain was trickling down the back of my neck, and it sobered me. Some of the flowers were beginning to wilt, and some had been blown over by the wind. It made my heart ache. I re-organized the flowers so that they looked as good as they could possibly look, and sat in front of your gravestone. I sat cross-legged, with my palms on the ground, wishing there were a way to strip away those six feet of dirt and sixty-six years of lost time.

I sat there for a long while, talking to you out loud, spilling out my innermost thoughts. I am not ashamed to say that I cried. I begged you to wake me from this nightmare. I begged you to appear to me, as a ghost, or a hallucination. I begged you to come back, or to take me with you to wherever we go beyond this life. I do not care which, I just want to be with you. I miss you desperately. The rain washed away my tears and drowned out the sound of my words, but I hope that you heard me, nonetheless. I hope you are out there, somewhere, in Heaven or some other good place. I do not want you to simply be gone.

My legs were getting cramp, so I struggled to my feet, and that's when I saw properly, for the first time, the graves of your family, right next to yours. I stared at their names, Margaret Carter and Stephanie Barnes, and I began to cry. Peggy and Stephanie. In your letters, you described them as two of the greatest loves of your life. I saw Peggy, from my perspective, less than a month ago. It was 1945, and she was a young woman, still with many decades of life inside her, her best years still to come. I spoke to her just weeks ago, about tactics on how best to intercept Schmidt's communications and disrupt HYDRA's plans. She was young, and we were fighting Nazis – and now, I've woken up, the war is over, and she's an old woman, dead, having lived a life, having been your wife, having gone through the pain of losing your beloved daughter, Stephanie.

I am so sorry for your loss, Bucky. I cannot imagine a greater pain than losing your child. That must be the kind of wound that never truly heals; an ache that never truly goes away. I earnestly believe that you and Peggy would have made wonderful parents, and I am so sorry that you never got the chance to have that. I thought about Stephanie for a while, your daughter, your precious little girl. I wish I could have met her. I would have loved her, spoiled her and adored her. I wonder if she would have called me Uncle Steve. You said she was born with blonde hair and blue eyes. I tried to picture her. I wish I could have seen her face, even if only that one time, even if only so that I could share the burden of yours and Peggy's grief. She should not have died – not while I was alive, sleeping, under the ice. Some illogical part of me feels as though I took that life away from her; if only I had died, the way I was supposed to, perhaps she might have lived, perhaps there might have been room for one more soul in the world. Because she is the one who should have lived, not me. I moved some of the flowers from your grave and divided them equally between the three of you: you, Peggy and Stephanie. I know it's what you would have wanted.

Is it strange, to say that I grieved for your daughter, having never met her? Is it odd, to say that I wished so deeply that she could have survived, to give you and Peggy the happy life that you deserved together? If she had lived, Peggy never would have fallen so deeply into the dark pits of depression. If she had lived, your life would have been infinitely more joyful. If she had lived, she would have been able to experience all the wonders of the world. I feel as though I am going crazy. I am grieving for things that never even happened. Stephanie's life. My life. _Our_ life. Everything should have been so very different.

It is not fair.

I felt the anger rise in me again, that mad urge to lash out and scream at the world. It has been there, ever since your funeral. It simmers under my skin, threatening to ignite at the tiniest thing and explode. I am furious. Everything is unfair. I rage against being trapped here, stuck in the wrong time, where everything has changed beyond recognition and all my loved ones are dead. I am angry that we did not get to say a proper goodbye. I am angry at myself, because this is all my fault. I alone made the choice to crash the Valkyrie. I can blame no one but myself, and somehow that makes things so much harder, because I cannot take the easy way out and blame it on someone else.

For a long while, I just stood there, shaking like a madman in the middle of the cemetery, wanting to sob, wanting to strike out and unleash my feelings with my fists, wanting to die and be rid of the pain, and join you. The madness passed. The shaking stopped, and so did the rain, and as it did so, a desperate idea took hold of me: that I need to get away. Away from New York City, away from all the old buildings that taunt me like ghosts, away from the memories of all the things I left behind. I need to go traveling. It doesn't matter where. Just anywhere but here. The act of traveling, of moving, is more important than the destination itself. Now that the idea has planted its seed in me, it is like an itch that must be scratched. I need to be by myself and sort my head out. I cannot stay here, not when every half-familiar street reminds me of the past.

I leave tomorrow.

Here begins the next stage of my journey.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190325723471/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter. The fact that this fic makes some of you look forward to Saturdays is the greatest compliment any writer could receive, thank you so much!
> 
> THOUGHTS: So, Steve is going to take a leaf out of Bucky's book and take some time to travel and sort his head out. Are you looking forward to finding out what happens next? Please let me know your thoughts in the comments section below :D
> 
> TEASER: In the next chapter, Steve will visit the Grand Canyon... 
> 
> TUMBLR: Fancy saying hi via social media? I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr if you are feeling friendly! <3


	4. 15 September 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned it in the Author's Note at the beginning of chapter 1, but here is another reminder to please read the tags if you have any personal triggers, and to leave now if you cannot handle any of the themes listed there. Links to support organisations are in this chapter's End Notes, if you need additional help and support. Safe reading, everyone <3 

Dear Bucky,

You said in your letters that you found yourself in awe of the Grand Canyon, so that is where I began my journey.

I arrived at the red gorge, pulled up my rented car and walked slowly out onto the dusty ground. The canyon was like a scar on the landscape, a deep groove dug out by some angry deity as he took a swipe at the ground. The red rock seemed to stretch out forever, peaks and troughs all the way to the horizon, the angle of the setting sun forming areas of deep shadow where it looked almost black. The air was still and quiet, and I felt alone, but somehow it didn't feel lonely, but peaceful. It was the scale of it that I hadn't been prepared for. I hadn't expected it to be so vast. For the first time since I woke up from the ice, I felt lost for words. It felt as though this place could be the only place to exist, that I could lose myself here, that I could be on some other world entirely, and it is that that I fell in love with.

I embraced this alien landscape, with its seeming promise of being some other place, some other reality. Perhaps, in this reality, you could be alive, or you could come back, and we could talk again, just once, for one final time, so that I could hold you and tell you that I love you, before we say goodbye. The otherworldliness of the canyon, deep dusky red, was beautiful, and somehow made me feel close to God. I closed my eyes and put my hands together to pray. I felt a little foolish. I have never been a particularly religious man, and therefore praying seemed more like an act than something genuine, but nevertheless, I tried.

I let the evening breeze snake over me and cool my arms. I blocked out the sound of the wind and birdsong and some faraway car engine. The inside of my eyelids was red, like the red of the stone before me, and I searched my mind for the words that my soul yearned to say. I wondered what it must be like, to be God, to hold the power of everything in His hands, to be able to see everything, and control everything, and bear witness to all things. I wondered what I would say to such a being, if I could meet Him, face to face, and speak my mind. The answer came so naturally that I did not need to consciously think about it at all. I would ask Him to bring you back. So, that's what I did.

I clasped my hands together in prayer and begged Him to hear my plea. I begged Him to bring you back to life. I told Him that I was willing to do anything in return: to completely devote myself to a religious life; to give away all my possessions and live with nothing; to die; anything, anything at all, in return for your life. I was prepared to make any bargain, any deal, any exchange. I begged Him to listen. I begged and begged until my cheeks with wet and my arms hurt with holding them in the praying position for so long. I prayed until my energy was sapped, until I was emotionally exhausted, until my chest ached with it, having given everything to my plea. When I had spent all my words, I finished my prayer, and waited.

I waited for several long minutes, anxious, my heart hammering, barely able to breathe. I'm not sure what exactly I had been expecting: to see you walking toward me, or to receive some visitation, or some other sign, some other response, to my prayer. God did not answer. He does not bargain, or at least He did not with me. That realization hit me like a physical pain. It was staggering. I began to hurry forward, my shoes slipping on the dusty ground as I ran right up to the edge of the canyon, before stuttering to a halt and gazing down to the depths below.

I teetered on the edge. The wind ghosted up the sides of the canyon and shivered over me. I stared down the cliff edge, suddenly frozen by indecision. I was not thinking. My movements were being completely guided by emotion and feeling, not logical thought. There were no words going through my mind, only a deep, raw ache in my heart for you. You were gone, dead, and not even a bargain with God was going to bring you back. Your death was final, absolute. I would never see you again. The pain ripped my mind to shreds, urged me to throw myself off the edge and join you. I cannot fathom how long I stood there, on the edge of the cliff, on the edge of my mind. Fear paralyzed me, preventing me from taking the final leap.

Eventually, the adrenaline pumping through me began to drop, and instead of being hot and wound up tight, I found myself cold and shivering. I bowed my head in shame, tears beginning to leak from the corners of my eyes. I stepped away from the edge, and took a few blind steps away, almost bumping into a tourist who, unknown to me, had wandered to almost my exact spot. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her green eyes met mine as I pushed awkwardly past her, hoping against hope that she had not realized what I had been on the cusp of doing.

I hurried back to the car, before locking the doors after myself and burying my head in my hands. I shook with tears, trying in vain to block it all out: the sounds of the outside, the reality of your absence, and the lingering stare of the female tourist.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUICIDAL THOUGHTS: In this chapter, Steve had some suicidal thoughts, although thankfully he didn't actually attempt to kill or harm himself. If you're feeling like you want to die, it's important to tell someone. You don't have to struggle with these difficult feelings alone. Help is available right now. If you're in the UK, you can call Samaritans for free at any time at 116 123. You can also call the NHS at 111 and they'll help you find the support and help you need. If you've harmed yourself, always call 999. You can find links to more support organisations and tips for coping on [this page of the NHS website](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/suicide/). Take care, my loves.
> 
> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190462873971/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: As always, a big thank you to those sweeties who left feedback on the last chapter. Hearing that you're enjoying this puts such a smile on my face :)
> 
> THOUGHTS: Poor Steve... What were your thoughts on this chapter? Please feel free to let me know in the comments section below!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve continue his travels across America...
> 
> TUMBLR: Feeling friendly? Talk to me on Tumblr at [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/)!


	5. 7 March 2012

Dear Bucky,

I have been traveling for six months.

During that time, I've moved around a lot, seen a lot of things, but somehow, the joy I first felt, briefly, when I went to the Grand Canyon, has gone. The world to me appears as if I'm viewing it through a gray filter. There is no color, no vibrancy. I go to beautiful places, but I cannot see the beauty in them. The stunning landscapes feel dull and empty. Exquisite natural wonders feel lifeless and flat. Fierce orange sunsets elicit no emotion. Sweeping vistas appear bland. It is as though I am looking at a photograph, not experiencing it first-hand. Part of me knows that this isn't right, but a larger part of me doesn't care.

Currently, I'm in Yosemite National Park. You said, in one of your letters, that you came here, when you went traveling after you split up with Peggy. You said it was beautiful, and I suppose objectively that's true, but I cannot muster the energy within myself to appreciate it. It is just another place, just another setting for me to walk around aimlessly. That isn't to say I don't like it. I like Yosemite, but perhaps not for the reasons you'd expect. It's not the forests or the mountains or the streams or the waterfalls. It's not the freshness of the air or the sense of being at one with nature. It's the isolation. I like that I am away from the rest of the world. I like being alone. When I am around other people, I somehow feel lonelier than ever. I see them all, happy and smiling with their friends and family, and it hurts. I resent them for it, and I feel separate from them, excluded, because I cannot have that: happiness, or a social life. Being alone is easier. I can forget my isolation and pretend that it is my choice. I can hide away, and that is why I like Yosemite.

I want to hide from the world forever. I want to wander. Yosemite is so wild, so apart from the normal world, that I feel as though if I wander long enough here, I'll stumble across you, and we can be reunited. I long for it, that fantasy. I find myself looking for you everywhere. Behind trees, or just beyond the next horizon, or the next... My heart aches without you. I have never missed someone like this, not even my mother, when she passed away from tuberculosis. I pray to you constantly, trying to make contact, begging you to give me some sign that you're out there, somewhere – even if in Heaven – listening to my prayers.

You haven't sent me any obvious signs yet – but sometimes, it's as if I feel a presence near me. It's almost a feeling of being watched, or followed. A couple of times, I've been so convinced that there was someone following me that I've even doubled back to check, to see if it was you. Because I want it to be you, so desperately. There's never anyone there. I am alone, but when I feel that fleeting sense of proximity, I like to pretend that it's you. Does that make me mad? Am I sick, and starting to hallucinate? Or are you there, somewhere, somehow, reading or listening to these words?

Please, Bucky, give me a sign that you're out there, even if only in spirit.

I have never known longing like this.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190594568876/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: This story is starting to get some loyal readers who leave comments on every chapter <3 Thank you so much for reading, lovely people, I appreciate you all so much.
> 
> THOUGHTS: Comments are always loved, so please feel free to share your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve make a drastic decision, and a new character will enter the story...
> 
> TUMBLR: I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Asks, follows and messages are always welcome <3


	6. 22 April 2012

Dear Bucky,

I thought that time was supposed to be a healer.

I thought that as time passed, I would miss you less, that the pain of your not being here would start to ease, that the days would get easier to struggle through. I was wrong. Instead of getting easier, it has only got harder. It is as if time is simply amplifying the grief, that every day is incrementally more wretched than the last, that fresh grief is being piled on with every passing second, layers upon layers of it, building up and up, until it's a hard, solidified ball all around me, impenetrable, cutting off the light of the outside world and everything but the memory of you and the agony of your absence.

Each day, I wake up, and it's a little bit harder than the last to open my eyes and face the rising sun. My chest aches, as if you left a physical hole, there, in my heart. I find myself crying randomly, sometimes just a few teardrops, other times a hysterical, embarrassing mess of sobbing. Other times, I find myself in a dull state of complete emotional numbness. There have been entire days when I've done nothing at all – not got up, not bothered to get dressed, not eaten a single bite of food. In those moments, I feel as though I am dead, and I feel that my being alive and breathing oxygen and taking precious resources like food and water is a waste.

I do not see the point in living, if this is what living feels like now. I do not want to live in a world without you in it. I pine for you constantly. I see you in my dreams, and when I awaken in the real world, I am hit by a sledgehammer of heartbreak and anger and pain. It is unbearable. I am not strong enough to cope with pain like this. All I want is to see you again. I just want to hold you, to kiss you, to hear your voice just one more time. I want you to tell me about your life, about all the things I missed out on. I want you to tell me about your life with Peggy, and what you did for a living after you left the Army. I want you to tell me about those weekends you spent at the care home playing with your great-niece Sharon and how you coped after your breakdown in Montana. I want to talk to you about the silly, irrelevant things. I want to ask you whether you ever got over your fear of dolls and if Peggy ever got as mad with you about your snoring as I did. I just want to talk, to hear your voice, to have the privilege of interacting with your mind, your soul, one more time.

I dream about you. In my dreams, you're young and whole and beautifully alive. I revel in the giddy thrill of touching you, of tasting you, of kissing you again. Sometimes, in my dreams, we even make love, and I wake up sweaty and out of breath from the pleasure of it. I want you to be here. I want to fall in love with you all over again, even if you're wrinkled and old – that wouldn't matter to me, not really, because as gorgeous as your face and body were, the thing I always loved the most about you was the brightness of your soul. I want you so desperately. I need you more than a fire needs oxygen. I feel as though I am starving, without you. I miss you so much that every day it feels as though my heart is breaking and my head is going to split open from the pain of it.

I do not want to live without you.

That is the decision I came to.

The realization was a stunning one, but somehow, it wasn't scary, but a relief. It was soothing, like a balm, this revelation that I did not have to continue suffering, if I did not want to. If I choose, I can join you in eternal sleep. I can go to sleep and never wake up, never have to cope with this agony of living without you. I can let go of the grief. I can choose not to have to spend every waking hour missing you and longing for your impossible return, because I do not have to be awake. Not if I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to live, without you. I don't want to live.

Those were the words that ran around my head like a drumbeat as I drove to a beach I had noticed yesterday. I do not want to live, I do not want to live, I do not want to live, I do not want... It was a quiet beach, not touristy at all, just a tiny little pebbled cove facing out onto the endlessness of the Pacific Ocean. I parked the car at the top of the cove and slithered down the grassy, crumbling embankment that led to the beach. Soil fell away under my feet, and I let myself appreciate the way it moved, those brown granules tumbling down under the force of gravity. My last time walking on soil, I thought to myself, and the thought of it made me smile, again not with happiness, but with relief.

I reached the beach and stood there for a while. I had made my decision, but I was in no hurry to die. There was no timescale, no deadline, no rush to get it over with. I closed my eyes and let myself be completely in the moment. Now that I knew I no longer had to suffer, I felt liberated, free at last, finally able to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings in a way that I hadn't since that fleeting, initial moment at the Grand Canyon. The stones of the beach were round and hard underneath my shoes. The breeze was fresh and salty, blowing over the waves and carrying the smell of sea salt right to my nose. I listened to the sound of the ocean, to the ebb and flow of the waves, crashing onto the beach and then receding, over and over, timeless and rhythmical. I felt, again, that feeling of being watched, and opened my eyes and looked up at the sky, at you, where I imagined you looking down on me. Were you looking forward to our being reunited? Or were you urging me not to do it? I did not know, but I figured I would find out soon enough. I reached down with my hands and scooped up a handful of stones. I rubbed them with my fingers, committing them to memory, silently feeling the little grains of salt and sand that made them gritty rather than perfectly smooth. I appreciated the texture of them, contemplated them seriously. The last time I would touch stone.

I began to walk, slowly, toward the sea.

The cold quickly seeped through my shoes and numbed my skin. The water clung to my jeans and made them stick to my legs, heavy and unwieldy. I carried on walking, barely thinking, going on autopilot, my mind filled only with one image: your face. I walked toward you, my heart simultaneously aching with grief and fluttering with giddy hope at the prospect of seeing you again. The wind was strong, out away from the shelter of the bay, and whistled noisily in my ears. I paused when the water reached my waist. The waves rolled past me, buffeting me as the current sucked at my feet. The water was freezing, pain shooting up my submerged legs. I ignored the pain and breathed deeply, taking a long, lingering look at my final view: dark gray waves all the way to the horizon, white-topped crests that crashed as they broke, and a powder blue sky smeared with gray clouds. Nothing gentle or poetic about these waves; just raw power, strength and ambivalence, a cold ocean. I began to laugh. My face was wet, although I couldn't be sure whether it was because of the sea or if I was crying. I sent you one final prayer, in case there was no afterlife, and let myself fall forward.

The cold water shocked me immediately. Even if I had wanted to, I would not have been able to swim. My muscles spasmed involuntarily, my mouth opening with a gasp and swallowing a huge lungful of water. The current sucked at me greedily, pulling me further out, deeper, down into the blue. My breath left me violently, a stream of bubbles tickling my face as they floated away, out of my mouth. Water flooded my mouth, my nose. I did not know which way was up or down. My feet were no longer able to touch the seafloor. Fear rushed through me, primal and instinctive. I opened my eyes in panic, and saw only darkness and bubbles, with blackness eating into the edges of my vision. Dying. Water filling my lungs.

I tried to conjure up your face one final time, but my brain was addled, unable to focus on anything but the desperate instinct to breathe. Water in place of air. Water everywhere. I tried to move my legs but was unable to. My thoughts slipped from me, just like the bubbles, and I felt myself begin to drift, the dead weight of my clothes pulling me gently down to the seabed, the final place for me to rest my head. I did not fight it. This was my choice, my decision. I wanted to be reunited with you. Even if I had wanted to, my body no longer obeyed me. I could not move. The final few bubbles of air left my lungs and slipped silently from my mouth. For a moment, nothing. Nothing but the dull, slowing beat of my heart thudding in my ears. Long pauses between each heartbeat. I listened to the sound of my own death.

That's when I saw it. A flash of something in the darkness. A feeling of something putting their arms around me, like an embrace. An angel. My head fell back and my eyes opened, and I could see a light. Heaven. We rose together, the light growing brighter and larger as my angelic companion pulled me upwards. I no longer felt cold, my body as warm and fuzzy as my mind. If I had any breath left, I would have let out a sob of joy. The light got larger and larger until we broke the surface and sunlight coated me. The sound of waves, again, filled my ears, but with another sound now, the sound of a woman talking. My mind could not make sense of the situation. My head flopped uselessly on my limp neck. I could not control my body. I was flipped onto my back and pulled again my strong, slim arms. Sunlight and waves. Blue sky over me. Heaven? My vision was blurry, and dully, as if from far away, I was becoming vaguely aware of a painful pressure in my chest. I did not understand. I blinked, and I was on solid ground again, being rolled onto my side. The world lurched, but I somehow managed to focus my gaze on the vision in front of me: my guide, my savior; an angel with green eyes and red hair.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE: Please please please, if you're thinking of committing suicide: don't. Things can and do get better. Whatever is going wrong in your life right now, suicide is not the solution. Please seek help. Go and see a doctor. Call a helpline - in the UK, you can call the Samaritans for free at any time on 116 123. Alternatively, call a friend or trusted family member and have them come over and be with you. Your life is worth something; please don't throw it away. [This page](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/suicide/) on the NHS website has some more tips and advice on how to cope and where you can get help. Take care of yourself; you are worth it <3
> 
> CHAPTER ART: The art for this chapter is [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190720553091/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3
> 
> THANK YOU: As always, thank you for your unwavering love and support in the comments section. I'm so happy that you're all enjoying this journey.
> 
> THOUGHTS: Fuck, that was intense... Please feel free to share your thoughts, feelings and noises in the comments section below.
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve talk with his red-haired angel...
> 
> TUMBLR: I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you fancy giving me a follow over there :)


	7. 23 April 2012

Dear Bucky,

I woke up in a military hospital, hooked up to machines, with wires and tubes criss-crossing my skin – and for one dreadful moment, I feared I had once more jumped through time and woken in yet another century, even more lost in time.

I sat up in a panic, only to see the angel with the red hair, the woman who had rescued me from the sea. She was sat next to my bed, and something about her soothed me. I remembered her dragging me to the beach, rolling me onto my side and peering into my face before I lost consciousness. Something about her green eyes seemed eerily familiar, and then another memory suddenly swam to the surface, sharp and in focus: the tourist who I had almost bumped into, right at the beginning of my travels, who had been just feet away from me as I stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, considering whether or not to jump. Red hair. Green eyes. The same pale face. Not a tourist then, but tailing me. I thought back to all the times I had sensed someone watching me, following me, and slowly everything slotted into place. I had thought it was you, looking down on me from Heaven. I was wrong; it was not you, it was this woman, this mystery with red hair who was yet to speak.

You've been following me, I said dully, and then, immediately afterwards, not particularly even caring for the answer: Is this real, or am I dead?

If the woman found my question strange, she didn't show it. She pulled her chair a little closer to my bed, her slim fingers settling elegantly on her thighs, fixing me with her gaze. Hypnotic. I stared at her. Despite my apathy, I found myself suddenly desperate to hear her speak. I realized I had not had a conversation with another human being for months. I had been traveling alone for so long that I had not even realized that I had become starved of human interaction. I craved it. Loneliness stabbed me in the gut, needling at my insides.

This is real, she said calmly, and I clung to her words. She told me that her name was Natasha Romanoff, that yes, she had been following me from day one, even back when I was still living in New York City. Eight months... I let that sink in, before turning my attention back to her. She had been keeping an eye on me, watching me from a distance, waiting for me to get used to being in this era, and then, when that didn't happen, making sure I was safe. My guardian angel. My eyes roved over her face, trying to remember if I had seen her anywhere other than the Grand Canyon. I could not recall it. She was a stranger, even though she had been traveling with me for the last eight months, my silent, invisible companion, and for some reason, I felt disappointed.

I wanted to ask why she hadn't made herself known to me until now, but even as my mind formulated the question, I knew the answer: I had not been ready. If she had introduced herself to me before, I would have turned her away. I had not wanted to be around people. I had wanted to lose myself, to wander so far that I might stumble across you, or learn to forget, or find some way to live with the pain. I had found my way, in the end, but Natasha had pulled me from the deep and dragged me back to the beach. The feeling of disappointment intensified, and I realized, despairingly, that the thing I was disappointed about was the fact that my attempt to join you hadn't worked. I was still alone, still separated from you, and I hated it.

Natasha seemed to sense my attention was wandering, so she tapped me gently on the arm, bringing my gaze back to her. She told me that she worked for an organization called SHIELD. My lack of comprehension must have shown on my face, because she went on to explain what SHIELD was: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. She told me, kindly, that Peggy was one of its founding members, and suddenly my throat was tight. I was unable to reply, rendered mute by the brutal reminder that Peggy, my friend, my contemporary, was now lost in the past, dead, forever gone, part of history, separated from me by a great swathe of time.

Natasha seemed to sense that I was struggling, because she told one of the nurses who had been lingering nearby to give us some space. The nurse left the room, so that it was just the two of us alone together. Somehow, it was easier, just being the two of us. Natasha silently gave me a Kleenex, and then rummaged around in her bag, lowering her head, discreetly giving me the chance to wipe my eyes. I did so quickly. When she finally looked up again, she ignored the crumpled Kleenex and looked me straight in the eyes. I looked back miserably. I did not know what to expect, but it certainly was not what she said next.

SHIELD want to help you adjust to your new life, out of the ice, she said. You're depressed. We want to help.

I shook my head immediately. I did not want a babysitter. I was not ready to be thrust back into the world, to have to deal with people again, to be surrounded by strangers once more and reminded by sheer comparison of my loneliness. I looked Natasha in the eye and tried to smile. I'm not depressed, I told her. Even to my own ears, the words sounded hollow. She raised her eyebrow, a delicate arch; she did not believe me either. Do you want to live? she asked me. I was silent for a while as I contemplated it. I thought about having to live in this strange time – without you, without family, without friends – and I shook my head honestly: no. Natasha's brow furrowed, and she shifted in her chair, leaning unconsciously toward me. Her expression was concerned.

We would go to the house of a fellow SHIELD agent, she told me, one who was something of a specialist at piecing people back together. The agent's name was Clint. Pointless, I thought, but I could not muster the strength to argue with her. I asked her why she thought it would work, staying with this agent, who apparently was to help me, somehow, come to terms with my situation. Natasha's face closed off for a moment, her eyes dropping down to her hands, which were clenched in her lap. My curiosity piqued. Slowly, she relaxed, and I could practically see her forcing herself to reply to me. It worked for her, she said.

I stared at her for a long while, puzzling her out. What had she been through, that she had had to be healed by this agent, this Clint? How had she been so broken that she had needed putting back together? Her expression revealed nothing. I asked her why she was helping me. SHIELD wanted to help me adjust, she said; I had done so much for the nation, and now they wanted to give something back. It was too slick, pre-rehearsed, a soundbite. I waved it away and asked again, chasing the truth. Why did _she_ want to help me? Not SHIELD, not the government, but her? She held my gaze for a long moment, before replying softly: she knew what it was like to be thrown into an unfamiliar world, she said; she knew what it was like to be totally alone, and she did not want me to be alone. I searched her face, and could see no trace of a lie.

I thought of you, and my voice crumbled at the edges. Had she ever lost a lover? I asked her. A soulmate? She looked at me quietly, pausing a long while before finally replying: no, she said, she had never lost that.

I turned away, curling in on myself, burying my face in the hospital pillow, and longed for you.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY INTERNATIONAL FANWORKS DAY: Today (Saturday 15 February 2020) is International Fanworks Day! I hope you're all having a lovely fannish day, and thank you so much for gracing my fics with your readership - you make fandom a really wonderful and fun place for me to exist <3
> 
> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190843750031/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you to those readers who have become regulars in the comments section of this fic! I love hearing your thoughts every week :D
> 
> THOUGHTS: Well done to those of you who correctly guessed that the red-haired tourist who we met at the Grand Canyon could be important! She was, of course, Natasha. I love Natasha, and I hope you're excited to have her join this story. As always, feel free to share your reactions in the comments below! :)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve move into Clint Barton's farmhouse, where he'll meet the people who are going to take on the mammoth task of helping Steve adjust to life in the 21st century...
> 
> TUMBLR: Want to hang out on Tumblr? I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) over there. Feel free to follow me or drop me a message, if you want to!


	8. 25 April 2012

Dear Bucky,

After months wandering alone, I am once again around people. It's good for me, I suppose, although that doesn't make the adjustment any easier.

I am staying at a farmhouse. It's an old, cozy building, imperfect but charming, with paint peeling off the wooden frames. The house itself is large, and it's set in a sloping meadow, with long grass and wildflowers. It's surrounded by hills, and down near the bottom of the meadow, where the grass is longest, I've heard the gurgling of a hidden stream. There's just one road that links the farmhouse to civilization – dirt which eventually turns to asphalt as it gets closer to the interstate. The farmhouse is isolated, for which I'm thankful. There are no other buildings for miles. At night, it's quiet, and I find myself listening to the silence that isn't quite silence: the wind blowing over the long grass, and the chirping of birds and insects, and the occasional creaking of the old house as it contracts in response to the cooling night air.

The owners of the farmhouse, my hosts, are a married couple, Clint and Laura Barton. Clint is a SHIELD agent, like Natasha. Laura is an author. They have two children, a six-year-old boy named Cooper and a three-year-old girl called Lila. Natasha is here too, and the children call her "Auntie Nat", even though I'm quite sure they're not related. The house is full of life and energy and love, and I feel like a cuckoo, sitting in a place where I don't belong, taking their food and bed without deserving any of it.

The Bartons have been nothing but kind and welcoming. They have accepted me into their home without question, with love and compassion and unwavering warmth. They have been lovely and done everything they can to make me feel at home. On my first day, Laura showed me a quiet little reading room, which has shelves crammed full of books from floor to ceiling, and huge, cozy beanbags on the floor to sit down on. She told me I'm welcome to hole myself away there any time that I need. Clint always invites me to help with preparing meals, and has shown me a range where I can try shooting with bows and arrows. The children bound up to me and ask if I want to play with them. Little Lila follows me around like a duckling. Natasha is always around, in the background, and has told me that she is there for me if I ever want to talk. Every single one of them has gone above and beyond to make me feel welcome.

It is unbelievably kind of them – but if anything, it makes me feel even worse. I feel alone, because these kind strangers are exactly that: strangers. I am in a perfect home with a perfect family, but I am not one of them. I feel ungrateful, because while they shower me with kindness, all I want to do is hide away. After so long alone, their presence is overwhelming.

I just want to be with you. I wish I had slipped beneath the waves, and that Natasha had not been there to intervene. I want you, and I miss you, now more than ever.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/190968321871/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you for your kind comments on the last chapter! I love reading your thoughts and feedback :)
> 
> THOUGHTS: So, we've met the Bartons! Steve is in good hands, and even though he's still struggling, it's better and safer than him being alone. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the changes to Steve's life that it introduced! As always, please let me know your thoughts in the comments below :D
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be set three months in the future and will see how Steve is settling into his new life staying with the Barton family...
> 
> TUMBLR: Feeling sociable? Feel free to give me a follow or a message on Tumblr! I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) over there.


	9. 25 July 2012

Dear Bucky,

I've been living with the Barton family for three months.

This farmhouse is my home now, I guess, although it still doesn't feel like home. I see the others laughing and enjoying life together, and even though they try to include me in everything, I feel as though I am separated from them by an invisible wall. Something funny or joyous will happen, and while the others will laugh and smile, I'll feel nothing. The children will come to me with exciting stories to tell, and even though I'll nod along and put on a smile, it is all fake, and I'll feel wretched and guilty for not feeling any genuine connection with them. I do not feel as though I fit in. My grief for you is a secret, buried inside me and eating me alive. There is a deep ache in my chest, that hole where you used to be, that hasn't diminished with the passage of time. I spend my days miserable, and wishing that whatever is broken inside my head can just be fixed, so that I can be happy and appreciative and truly part of this family that has welcomed me so warmly into their home. I wish I could do more than simply lurk awkwardly on the edges, unable to feel anything but the ache, unable to join in, unable to feel alive.

Natasha has tried to get me to talk with her about how I'm adjusting to the modern age. She has asked me if there is anything or anyone in particular who I'm missing from my own time. She has opened up to me about her own past. Apparently, she was raised from childhood as a spy, a killer, by the Soviet government. She spent her childhood controlled and brainwashed, and it was only in her mid-twenties that she finally managed to break free and make her own choices. She says that her first year of freedom was spent here, at Clint's farmhouse, with Clint and his wife, that they were her therapy, that they managed to fix so many of the things that had been broken inside her, simply by giving her love, patience and a home. She wants to help do the same for me. I can understand, now, why she was chosen for this mission, and while she may be best placed out of anyone at SHIELD to help me adjust to the modern age, I still feel as though there is nothing she can do. There is no one alive who can understand this. I was ripped from my time. I have nothing and no one. Most importantly, I don't have you.

I haven't told anyone here about you yet. I promise that I'm not ashamed of you; it's simply too painful to think about you, let alone talk about you. When my mind wanders, inevitably, back to you, I get a horrible aching feeling in my chest. I regret more than anything that I didn't tell you how much I loved you, when you were alive. I think back to the Valkyrie and I scream at my past self for ever plunging it into the ice and leaving you alone to search for me, to suffer, to grieve for me while I lay there sleeping. I remember our final meeting, when I finally woke from my long sleep, and my mind replays the image of you, your hair white, your face lined by years of experience, your joints stiff and aching, your back curved into a gentle hunch. I didn't react at the time, so as not to hurt your feelings, but afterwards, at home in my new apartment, I sobbed for hours. It horrified me, to see so starkly how many years we had missed out on together. I saw that you had lived a life, and it killed me that I had missed the chance to be part of it, that we did not grow old together.

The others are worried about me. I can see it in the concerned glances that they send to one another when I sit with them, almost mute, at mealtimes at the kitchen table. I can see it in the gentle way Laura brings me books, and the way Clint's ever-observant eyes follow my movements as I drift around his home, and the way Natasha watches me with her calm, inscrutable gaze. Even the children, in their intuitive, unconscious way, express their concern by sometimes giving me their toys to borrow.

I hate that they have to worry about me. I do not want to be a burden. I wish they could simply get on with their lives, happy and carefree, and not have to be concerned or anxious about my well-being. I have never wanted to be an inconvenience to anyone, even when I was weak and sickly before I was injected with the serum, and my time in the ice has not thawed that particular attribute of my character.

I feel they would be better off if they had never met me.

I feel it would have been better, for everyone, if I had never emerged from the waves, and that I had just drowned in the sea, like I was supposed to.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALFWAY: That was chapter 9 out of 17 which means we're now over halfway through this story! Thank you for your loyal readership and I hope you enjoy the second half as much as you've enjoyed the first <3
> 
> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/611325218245525504/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you, angst-lovers for following this story to its halfway point, and an extra thank you to those of you who left such nice comments on the last chapter! You are wonderful.
> 
> THOUGHTS: Oh dear, to feel alone even in the presence of other people is a truly horrible feeling. Poor Steve. Please, feel free to sob with me in the comments section below!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve try a new method of coping...
> 
> TUMBLR: Want to Tumble with me...? I'm talking about Tumblr, of course! I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) over there, feel free to say hello ;)


	10. 26 July 2012

Dear Bucky,

I should have known better than to leave these letters lying around in the dresser next to my bed, given that I live, literally, with spies.

Natasha came to talk to me yesterday evening, her eyes wide with concern, my last letter clutched in her hand. She asked me bluntly if I was contemplating suicide again. I was so shocked that she had gone through my belongings that I could not find the words to answer, which I think Natasha took as an answer in and of itself. She pulled me into a hug, and despite myself, I clung to her. I was too overwhelmed to speak, and also crushingly ashamed that she had read my weakest, most vulnerable thoughts. Even before I had the serum, I was never the kind of man to wallow in self-pity due to my medical conditions, or to allow anyone to think of me as less than, just because I was physically weak. I hated my weakness, and so to know that Natasha has read those words, where I said in no unclear terms that I wished I were dead, fills me with humiliation.

Natasha has been sticking even closer to me than ever, since then. I suspect she's told Clint and Laura as well, because since then, I've noticed that I have never been alone. One or more of the adults have always been in the same room as me, and to know that they all think I'm weak, that I'm some mentally unstable invalid, like a child who needs constant supervision, fills me with despair. I hate it. I feel watched, and then I feel paranoid about being watched, and then I feel both angry and exhausted. I feel stifled, and even though I know they're doing it for honorable reasons, that they're doing it for my own good, I just want some space.

I need space to grieve for you. You were such a huge part of my life, and now that you're gone, you've left a chasm in your wake. There is so much of you to grieve for, so many different facets that made up you. I grieve for you, the Bucky I knew and loved, the young man who was full of life, who sparkled, who was beautiful and strong and loved science conventions. I grieve, too, for the version of you who died not so long ago, the elderly gentleman, whose life I did not have the privilege of sharing, who I never got to watch grow old, who lived a life I will never truly know, who loved and lost, over and over, but never once grew bitter or weary. There is the you I knew, and the you I didn't, and my heart aches with the loss of you both.

I wonder if I will ever get over you. I wonder if I'll ever move on, and heal, and learn to love life again, or if your absence will always cast a shadow over my remaining years. Can happiness still exist, when the thing that made me happier than anything else is gone? Is there a life for me, after your death? Will things ever improve, or is this wretched existence all that's left for the rest of my life? These were the thoughts that were turning over in my head, repetitively and deeply, earlier this evening, as I was in the bathroom, getting myself ready for bed. I was shaving, when I was suddenly overcome by a fresh wave of grief.

The emotional pain was so acute that I had to steady myself against the sink. My eyes were blurred with tears, and although I could barely see, it was suddenly clear to me that there was far too much pain to keep inside my body. Hardly thinking, I pressed the blade of the razor against my arm. The pain sliced into me, but at the same moment, it was a rush of the most intense relief. At last, an outlet for all the hurt that had been pent up inside me. It was like releasing pressure from a valve. As I focused on the physical pain in my arm, the psychological pain lessened, became bearable, took a back seat for the first time since I learned of your death all those months ago. I stood there for a long while, savoring the physical pain, beyond relieved that the grief, that constant ache in my chest, had faded to the point where I could relegate it to the periphery of my awareness. The relief, the release, was indescribable.

After a while, I came back to my senses. I washed the dried blood off my arm, and watched how the wound was already starting to form the protective top layer that would eventually become a scab, then a scar. I rolled the sleeve of my pajama shirt down to cover my arm.

I will hide it from the others, along with this letter – more carefully, this time.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SELF-HARM: At the end of this chapter, Steve self-harmed. Self-harm is when somebody intentionally damages or injures their body. It's usually a way of coping with or expressing overwhelming emotional distress. If you're self-harming, please seek help from a doctor. They'll be able to sort out treatment and therapy for your underlying problems, to alleviate your distress and help you become mentally healthier and happier. You may feel ashamed of your scars/injuries, but please don't let that put you off seeking help. Doctors and therapists have seen it all before. They won't be shocked. They won't judge you. They just want to help you. You are worth saving, and you deserve to live a happy and healthy life. If you're in the UK, [this page on the NHS website](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/self-harm/) has more information on how to get help for self-harm. Take care <3
> 
> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/612027965115662336/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost.
> 
> THANK YOU: I can't believe just how sweet some of you are! Thank you for reading this story, for leaving such amazing comments, and for following Steve on this difficult emotional journey. I promise it'll be worth it in the end <3
> 
> THOUGHTS: I suck up feedback like a vacuum cleaner, so as always, please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments section below! :D
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see the Angst Train continue on its journey to Sob Town.
> 
> TUMBLR: Want to cry with me on Tumblr? There, I share beautiful Marvel aesthetics, reply to your asks, and occasionally post stuff about my life. I'm [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) if that sounds like your cup of tea!


	11. 1 November 2012

Dear Bucky,

I am in pain, and I am ashamed.

My self-harm has got out of control. It is the only way that I can gain relief from the emotional pain inside, but the soothing effect does not last long. After a day or so, the anguish becomes unbearable again, and the only way to relieve it is by distracting myself with the physical pain of cutting and releasing the tension that way. My arms are covered in scars, both old and new. They look as though a child has grabbed a pen and drawn lines all over my skin.

It fills me with a deep sense of shame, that this is the only way I can cope with the torment of living without you, that I have mutilated myself in this way, that I am so weak that I cannot resist it, even when I want to. I know I need help, but I cannot seek help. I cannot bear the thought of seeing such judgment or horror or disgust on the face of whoever might one day look at my arms. I wear long sleeves constantly, and I live in fear of the day when Natasha or Clint will notice and start to question it.

I feel like a failure, because I am not the first person to experience grief, nor will I be the last. I am not the first person to lose a lover, a soulmate. Why can't I cope without you? Why can't I live with the grief, when there are millions of others who can? Why am I so weak as to turn to self-destruction, when there are countless others out there who face far worse problems than me, who are strong and resilient and able to cope with the pain? I am not worthy of the title of "hero" that the media bestows on me. I am not the strong man they believe me to be. I am not anything, anymore, without you.

I wake up every morning and I hate that I am alive. There is a brief moment, before my thoughts come to me, that are peaceful and calm. It lasts no longer than a few seconds, but it is the best part of my day. Because once those few seconds are over, and my consciousness fully returns to me, it is like someone rips out my guts, and I remember that the year is 2012, and that you are gone. I am nothing without you. I have nothing – I have no family, no friends, no you. Everything has changed, and I cannot cope with it.

The others are worried about me. They are doing all they can to help me acclimatize to this new world, but I struggle even to get up and wash myself, let alone learn about new technologies, modern attitudes or today's culture. They are trying to help me, but I cannot get myself out of this downward spiral, and I hate that I am letting them down. I have not opened up to any of them. It hurts too much, to think about what I've lost, let alone say the words out loud. Perhaps a stronger man could do it, but that is not me.

Every night, I dream of the sea. I dream of slick, smooth pebbles under my feet, and the cold, numbing water creeping up my legs. I let myself fall forward into the wash, and I hear your voice. I cling to that beautiful sound, and I let the waves carry me toward the sound of you. You smile and reach toward me, and call out for me to join you in the afterlife.

If only I could find the courage to do so.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/612565546368745472/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: To hear that some of you check for updates on this story every Saturday just makes me dissolve into a happy pile of goo and amazement! Thank you all for following this story and allowing your hearts to be open to all these difficult emotions. To share this story with you is a total privilege.
> 
> THOUGHTS: Gosh, Steve really has hit rock bottom, hasn't he? Right now, he's severely clinically depressed. If only someone could penetrate that thick fog of depression and coax him to talk... As always, please feel free to share your thoughts and reactions in the comments section below <3
> 
> TEASER: What's that...? A glimmer of hope? A wind of change?! Tune in next week to find out...
> 
> TUMBLR: Want to connect with me over social media? I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and love speaking with readers and fellow Marvel fans! :)
> 
> COVID-19: In the last week, the coronavirus COVID-19 has been declared a pandemic by the World Health Organisation. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you're well and keeping safe. Wash your hands, follow the medical advice provided by your government and try to keep positive. Sending you lots of love and best wishes for your good health <3


	12. 12 December 2012

Dear Bucky,

It was the children who saved me.

It began in the morning, when I was sat out in the meadow, sketching the way the grass undulated with the wind. I like the meadow. It's quiet and peaceful, and being there makes me feel a little closer to nature, a little closer to you. It's winter, so the flowers have died back, but long grass still covers the hills that surround the farmhouse. I was sitting there, sketching, and thinking of you. Do you remember the time when we crossed through that most stunning meadow, in Austria, during the war? We were laden down with our military gear, sweaty and dirty, but the sheer beauty of the meadow took our breath away for a moment. Briefly, we could pretend we were not at war. For a fleeting instant, we could pretend that the heavy packs were just regular backpacks, and that our rations were a picnic, and that we were going on a secret date in some beauty bit of country.

I was remembering that moment, my pencil paused over my sketchpad, when the two Barton children, Cooper, 6, and Lila, 3, came and sat down on either side of me. Cooper peered at my drawing. Lila leaned into my side, wrapping her little hands around my own. For reasons unknown, Lila adores me, and loves to follow me around. Even when I can barely muster the strength to go about my day, she can always make me smile by giving me a hug. It makes me feel guilty, that I am so numb that I can't play with her properly, but she seems to have grown accustomed to my depression and is content enough to settle for the occasional hug or bedtime story. The children began asking me questions about the meadow – if I had gone on an expedition to walk all seven hills yet, or if I had gone down to the stream lately to look for fish – when Lila suddenly pointed at my wrist with a shout of surprise.

I looked at where she was pointing, and saw a little scar, about a week old, poking out from under the sleeve of my shirt. I immediately tugged down my sleeve to cover it, but the damage was done – they had seen it. Lila asked me what the mark was. I lied and told her it was nothing, but the untruthfulness of my answer was obvious to them both. They understood that it was a scar, and I knew that they knew it. Before I could stop her, Lila tugged my sleeve up to reveal several more scars, in various stages of healing. Cooper looked up at me, his blue eyes wide and innocent as he told me that he once got a scratch like that when he fell down the stairs and cut himself on a nail that sticks out at the bottom of the stairs. Lila wrapped her little arms around my neck as she hugged me. I must fall down the stairs a lot, she said; I should try to be more careful. My throat swelled up, I could not reply, because how can I rebuff the kindness of children, or even begin to explain to them what is going on inside my head?

Laura called them in for lunch, and as they skipped away, I thought I had got away with it – but of course, nothing in life is that simple. That evening, when we were all sat around the kitchen table eating dinner – a delicious vegetable pot pie that Laura and Clint had made together – Lila piped up and asked her parents if they were going to put a crash mat at the bottom of the stairs. The adults were confused. They asked her what she meant, and even before she answered, I felt sick with panic, my stomach churning and my palms suddenly cold and sweaty, as I realized my most shameful secret was about to be exposed in front of everyone. Lila pointed to me and explained that I kept falling down the stairs, that she had seen the scars on my arms to prove it. There was silence. I sat there, bright red and miserable, wishing I could disappear through the floor as I felt the weight of their gazes on me.

Natasha was the first one to move. She gently, wordlessly pulled my left sleeve up, revealing the scars, dozens of them, all different ages, all different shades: red, crimson, brown, silvery-white. I felt my throat tighten and my cheeks wetten as they stared at my scars, their eyes wide with shock. Unlike the children, they understood that they were not caused by falling down the stairs, but by something altogether less easy to fix. I sat there, mute and unable to move, feeling naked and vulnerable in a way that I don't think I've ever felt before. _Oh Steve_ , whispered Laura, before moving around the table and pulling me into a hug. Natasha's hand found its way into my own. Clint's hand clasped my shoulder gently. They held me, all three of them, and for the first time, I let them. The dam that had been holding everything in finally broke, and I allowed myself to sob, my mind a jumbled mess of all the things that had happened since I woke up from the ice: your funeral, beating up the homeless man in New York, the Grand Canyon, the memory of you, and all that lost time, the knowledge that as desperately as I might want to, it is impossible to turn back the clock, to go back to the Valkyrie and make a different choice.

I closed my eyes and clung to them, shaking, and for the first time, I said your name out loud.

_I miss Bucky so much._

It was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but in the hush of the kitchen, it was enough. They all sat down and moved their seats closer to mine. Natasha and Laura were still holding my hands. Who's Bucky? asked Lila. I stared at her, with her messy brown bangs framing her round face, her wide brown eyes; this little girl who had just said your name, who had just uttered proof that you did once exist, that you were real, that you had a name. Bucky was my best friend, I told her, before clearing my throat and trying again, the truth this time: Bucky was my soulmate.

I didn't look at the adults. Didn't want to see the judgment on their faces. Instead, I kept looking at Lila, who had just broken into a wide smile, scooting up into my lap as she looked at me, excited for story time.

Tell me about Bucky, she said.

So, I did.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/613201406518804480/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> THANK YOU: As always, thank you for all your lovely AO3 comments and Tumblr messages! I got a wonderful Tumblr "ask" this morning full of excitement for a new chapter and, I can tell you, it was the perfect way to start the day! :D
> 
> THOUGHTS: At last, Steve has let the walls surrounding him come down and let the others in. That first step is unbelievably hard and courageous, but he's done it, and now that they know exactly what he's grieving for, they can finally give him the type of help and support he needs and deserves. Please let me know your thoughts, feelings, reactions etc. in the comments section below! <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve celebrate his first Christmas with the Barton family and Natasha...
> 
> TUMBLR: Tumblr? Tumblr. This is me: [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> SELF-ISOLATION: A big shout out of solidarity to everyone who has started social distancing and self-isolation in the last week in response to the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic! I started working from home last Tuesday in response to updated government advice, and have had to cancel all in-person social plans with friends. It's weird, but it's necessary to keep the most vulnerable people safe, so it's fine. I hope you're all doing OK! It'll be hard, but we'll get through this together <3


	13. 25 December 2012

Dear Bucky,

It's been almost two weeks since I told the others about you, and today, for the first time since I came out of the ice, I woke up feeling happy.

Opening up to the others about you – about us – has been the most incredible relief. I had been afraid that they might react negatively, that they might throw me out of the house in disgust, but no one seems to be the slightest bit bothered that we were two men, and that we were in love. I mentioned this, tentatively, to Natasha, but she just looked at me, almost mystified that I had even been worried about it, and simply told me that love is love. For you to be openly acknowledged as my lover, my partner, gives me the most tremendous feeling of validation. When we were growing up, in the 1920s and 1930s, it was impossible to imagine that a love like ours might one day be tolerated, let alone celebrated or seen as something positive. Never in a million years could I have imagined that one day I might be talking about you, openly and without shame or fear of reprisals, to Clint, Laura, Natasha, Cooper and Lila – my found family.

The children love to hear stories about you. They ask me questions all the time, about what it was like for us growing up almost a hundred years ago, and what your hobbies were, and what you were like as a person. I indulge their questions, because I love talking about you; you were, always, my favorite thing, my favorite person, my favorite topic of interest. Talking about you and remembering you comes as easily to me as breathing, and now that I can finally do so, openly, without even having to censor myself, it is like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. No longer do I have to suppress my grief and my memories of our life together. No longer do I have to live in fear that the others might find out about us and turn me away in disgust. No longer do I have to keep this secret, our forbidden love that was unspeakable when we were together. It has liberated me, eased the emotional pain to such an extent that I now seldom feel the need to cut myself. At last, I feel able to be vulnerable in front of the others, to be honest with them about how I'm feeling, to be real.

I cannot put into words how grateful I am toward the others, that they have accepted our love without question or hesitation, that they have accepted you as easily as they accepted me. Now that they finally understand the source of my greatest grief, they are properly able to support me, to provide me with appropriate advice and comfort. They ask me about you, they give me ample opportunity to talk about you, they speak your name with respect and dignity, as though you were a member of their own family, as if they too are grieving for you, if only because of the effect they see your loss has had on me. Natasha has even arranged for me to start formal counselling sessions in the New Year, which while terrifying, is also a relief.

Today is Christmas Day.

The children woke up early, roused the whole house at 7am with screams of delight, thundering around the house as they ran from room to room to wake us, to wish us a happy Christmas, to announce excitedly that Santa had been in the night and left us all presents for being good boys and girls. Lila bounded into my room and launched herself onto me, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me out of bed, down the stairs, to the Christmas tree that we had all decorated together a week prior. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes when she gave me a present that she had made for me herself: a stick-figure drawing of me and you, holding hands, surrounded by flowers and love hearts, bold and bright and immortalized in multi-colored crayon. Laura had helpfully labeled the stick figures: Steve and Bucky. My throat closed up. I was unable to speak, so touched was I by this child's most precious gift, this beautiful drawing. I hugged her tightly and rubbed away my tears discreetly. I thanked her, and the picture is now framed, in pride of place, on my bedside table.

Christmas dinner was a beautiful event. Clint loves cooking, and he made a spectacular roast dinner, with both roast turkey and roast pork, with roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots and cabbage. Laura had covered the table in festive trinkets and fake snow (the latter mainly for the sake of the children, who had been disappointed by the lack of actual snow on the ground outside) and got the fire going, filling the house with warmth and the homely, crackling sound of logs burning. What touched me most, however, was the empty space that they left at the table, between me and Clint. Empty chair, empty plate, solitary silverware. I was confused by it, initially, wondering if perhaps I had missed an announcement that some family member was coming over. I sat next to the empty space, pondering who it could be for, when the chatter around the table fell and Clint raised his glass, the rest of us following suit automatically, toasting the empty space.

"To absent friends," said Clint, before fixing his eyes on me. "And to loved ones we've lost."

My chest swelled with emotion. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from bawling – but I was not sad. Some sadness was there, of course, that you could not be here to share this Christmas with us, but it was more than that. I felt deeply, viscerally touched that Clint had actively included you in this way. I was so unbelievably proud that you were being acknowledged and remembered, on Christmas Day, one of the most special days of the year, not only by me, but by this whole family of people who had come to learn about you and who had fallen in love with your memory in such a short space of time.

We toasted you, our glasses in the air, and the memory of you filled the room with love.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/613834129887346688/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> FANART: One amazing reader actually recreated parts of this chapter in real life and shared the pictures online!! Check it out [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/616224222582374400/schatten-wolfsdrache-sometimes-homeoffice-can-do) to see Wolfdrache's recreation of Lila's drawing and the empty chair at the Christmas dinner table! This is so sweet - thank you so much, Wolfsdrache!
> 
> THANK YOU: As always, thank you to those of you who left such lovely comments on the last chapter. I'm glad this story is able to entertain you during these days of lockdown :)
> 
> THOUGHTS: Ah, at last, a happy chapter! Although, onion-cutting ninjas must be about, because somehow I'm still crying... How did you find it? Please feel free to share your thoughts, feelings and reactions in the comments section below!
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will see Steve continue on his healing journey :)
> 
> TUMBLR: Don't be a stranger! I'm always happy to talk to readers and fellow Marvel fans on Tumblr :D I'm [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) over there, if you fancy dropping me a message or an "ask".


	14. 3 January 2013

Dear Bucky,

I talk about you every day with the children, and every day I feel stronger and happier because of it.

To my delight, Lila and Cooper love listening to stories about their "Uncle Bucky" and I love telling them, because it feels as though I am keeping the memory of you alive; like you are not really gone, because every day we speak your name and talk about your life.

Yesterday, we talked about how I rescued you from the Nazis, when Dr. Zola had kidnapped you and other members of the 107th for slave labor and medical experimentation. I didn't tell the children that part, of course, but I told them how exciting it was to find you alive, and how your eyes widened with shock when you saw that the scrawny, sickly man you'd left behind in New York City had buffed up to become someone tall and muscular and capable of busting you out of there. I told them how we escaped, side by side, rescuing your fellow prisoners and helping those who were wounded and had trouble walking. The children clapped and hollered with delight. They see you as a hero, and that fact makes my chest swell with pride – because you were a hero, really and truly.

This morning, we talked about how you taught your youngest sister Becca how to swim. I remember watching as you taught her patiently how to be comfortable in the water, how to kick, how to move her arms, how to breathe and keep her face above the water. Becca was not a naturally confident swimmer, but you never gave up on her, and after several long months of daily lessons, she finally swum her first length. It was a joyous moment. Her hard work and determination had paid off, and your perseverance, your unwillingness to give up on her, even after several adults had done so, was beautiful. Cooper is going to start swimming lessons later this year, and he proclaimed that he knew he'd be able to do it, because the spirit of you would be watching over him, teaching him just like you taught Becca all those years ago. It brought a tear to my eye.

Finally, I feel as though I am healing. At last, I have an outlet to talk about you and how much I love you. It is liberating beyond words. Lila said that she wants to build a time machine, so that she can meet you, so that the two of you can become friends. At one point in the not so distant past, the impossibleness of her words would have killed me, sent me spiralling into a dark place that only the sharp cut of a razor blade could pull me from. Thankfully, I am stronger than that now. Instead, I smiled and told her that you would have loved her, because you loved children – your sisters, your cousins, and most of all, your little girl, Stephanie, whom I would have loved to have met, whom you loved with all your heart.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/614465388092293120/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost :)
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you to those of you who shared your happy tears in the comments section of the last chapter! At last, we've reached the healing stage of this story. I hope it gives you some relief in these uncertain times all around the world <3
> 
> THOUGHTS: At long last, remembering Bucky fills Steve with happiness rather than despair. It can take time, tears and hard work, but trauma can be overcome. As always, please feel free to leave your comments and reactions below! I absolutely love hearing from you guys <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be set on Valentine's Day, and will see Steve reminiscing about past Valentine's Days with Bucky...
> 
> TUMBLR: I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, if you want to hang out with me on there! :D


	15. 14 February 2013

Dear Bucky,

Happy Valentine's Day.

Today has me nostalgic for all the Valentine's Days we celebrated together in the past. We celebrated in secret, of course, and we never explicitly called them Valentine's Day dates, but I think both of us knew, even if we were too afraid to say the words out loud, that those special dates that just happened to coincide with February 14, every year, were exactly that.

I remember in 1939, when we first became lovers, you took me away to the country. My asthma had been particularly bad that winter, made worse by the pollution in New York City, and your solution was beautiful in its simplicity. You couldn't take the pollution away from the city, so you took me away instead. We spent a week in a rented cabin near the Catskill Mountains, nestled away among the woodland and lakes and peaks. The clean air helped soothe my lungs, and no sooner had I caught my breath than you took my breath away again, taking me on stunning, gentle strolls and ravishing me whenever we got back to the cabin, both of us young-twenty-somethings and horny as hell. We made love so many times that week, but what I remember best is the gentleness of your hands, making sure I was comfortable and happy every time we touched.

Not all our Valentine's Days were so idyllic. I remember in 1941, when both of us were pretty broke, we couldn't afford to go away anywhere special. It didn't matter, though. We spent the evening at your apartment, cooking together and laughing and just enjoying one another's company. I was pretty terrible in the kitchen, and I recall that my help might have been more of a hindrance, as you seemed to spend half the time trying to stop me from burning the place down, but we enjoyed every moment of it. We didn't need a fancy vacation, or a posh restaurant, or even anyone to wish us a happy Valentine's Day together. All we needed was one another, and the love we held in our hearts, even if we never uttered that word out loud. We ate the food that we'd made together, and that was special enough for us.

We had our final Valentine's Day in 1945, just weeks before I put the Valkyrie in the ice. We were in Switzerland, our home an Army base made up of a series of tents and temporary buildings nestled in the shadow of one of the mountains. No opportunity to go on a date, but I went to your tent late that night with some chocolate that I'd saved from my rations and we sat in silence, savoring the sweet sugar together. We kissed and jerked one another off, half-aroused, half-fearful of discovery, not daring to do any more than that, what with the next tent so near. It wasn't romantic, but it was the best we could do.

I wish we could have had better. I wish you could be here, today, to celebrate with me, out and proud. I'd take you on a walk around these beautiful hills that surround the Bartons’ farmhouse. I'd cook you a meal, a proper one (I've learned some skills in the kitchen since 1941) and lay the table out all fancy, get the fire going and really make it cozy and homely for you. I'd take you on vacation, anywhere you wanted to go, and spoil you, tell you how special you are to me, how you were always my number one guy. I wish more than anything we could have been born in this modern age, when our love is legal, when our love is celebrated, when there are gay pride parades and rainbow flags, when we are treated as equal.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so fanciful on you. I suppose it's natural to look back at the past when things are changing so much in the present, when my future is starting to emerge.

I have news. I am moving out of the Bartons' house. They have helped me in so many ways, and I will be eternally thankful. They helped me to heal from the trauma of waking in a new century. They helped organize professional counselling sessions for me. They helped me acclimatize to this new age and taught me how to use modern technology and how to navigate this new era of social norms. They accepted me into their family and treated me with love and compassion from day one. It will be tough to move away from them, but I need to start standing on my own two feet, and we have promised to keep in touch and visit one another often. Natasha has helped me find a new apartment in New York City, Brooklyn, close to where we grew up, actually, and I'll be moving there next week. I am excited to start this new era in my life. It feels as though things are finally starting to fall into place.

That's not all. Recently, Natasha brought me along to shadow her at work. On one minor mission, I offered some strategic insights based on my training in military intelligence, and the Director of SHIELD has offered me a job as a Level 1 agent. It's the very lowest rank so I won't be working directly with Natasha or Clint just yet, but I'm excited to start my new role. SHIELD is an organization that keeps the public safe from dangerous threats. I'm going to make a difference in the world. I'm going to make it a better, safer place. I know you'd be thrilled. Your wife was even one of the founding members. I cannot wait to make you proud.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/615098285273792512/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you all for your readership, your comments and your kudos. To share this story with you is an absolute privilege!
> 
> THOUGHTS: Steve's recovery is coming along in leaps and bounds! It seems like he's ready to embark on a new era in his life. As always, please let me know your thoughts, feelings and squealings in the comments section below; I adore hearing from you guys <3
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will jump forward by a year and will see Steve give his first television interview since waking up from the ice...
> 
> FUTURE FICS: Recently, I've been busy preparing my next two fics! They will both be Stucky, and will both be a lot happier and smuttier than this story! It's been cathartic to get this angst out of my system, and I'm looking forward to writing some more upbeat and sexy stuff in the future. If you want to be notified of my new fics once I start publishing them, go to [my AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991/) and become a Subscriber ;)
> 
> TUMBLR: I'm also on Tumblr if you want to keep up to date with me on there! You can find me at [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/).


	16. 4 July 2014

Dear Bucky,

Today, I came out to the world.

I did an interview on ABC News, my first ever public interview since waking up from the ice three years ago. I felt nervous, and I was flustered and sweaty as the bright lights lit up the TV set like a second sun. I perched on my chair, trying to smile in a way that didn't reveal my inner nerves and stage fright, as the interviewer – a warm, friendly woman named Helen – explained what was going to happen. A make-up guy was putting powder on my face to reduce the sweaty shine I was giving off and the camera operator was playing on her phone. I tried not to be distracted by the man's brush sweeping across my forehead or the fast tapping of the woman's thumbs as she played her game, absorbed by the little screen in her hands. I realized that I was well and truly distracted and snapped my attention back to Helen, who was smiling knowingly, not annoyed, putting a gentle hand on my arm, grounding me back in reality.

Was it going to be my first time on live TV? she asked. I blushed and nodded, slightly embarrassed that it was so obvious, but she was a gem, sending the make-up guy away to give us a little more privacy, speaking to me in a calm, soothing voice that could not help but put me at ease. The interview was to celebrate Independence Day. It would be a glimpse into the life of an American icon (her words, not mine, I find the description as cringey as I do flattering); a chance for me and the nation to reflect on American values, and how our country has changed since I was growing up. Viewers had been begging for this interview on social media, she said, and I nodded, bemused but happy nonetheless to talk about the changes I had seen before and after my long sleep in the ice.

There was a sound check, some intro music, and suddenly the camera operator was no longer playing with her phone, but focused on her equipment, completely professional as the auto-cue began to roll. Helen introduced me to the nation, and I could almost feel the powder melting off my face in a fresh tidal wide of sweat as it hit me that the scene was being broadcast live, to millions of TV sets up and down the country. My mouth went dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, but then Helen turned to me, smiled gently, and I forced myself to concentrate solely on her, as if we were just two people having a conversation, and I felt my heart rate begin to settle.

Helen started off with easy questions, letting me get into my stride, nodding encouragingly and with genuine interest as I began to talk about some of the main differences between when I was growing up and now. We started off with food, an easy topic, and I grew more comfortable as I realized that it really wasn't difficult to talk to Helen, that it was just like talking to anyone else. I spoke about how we had just used to boil everything, and that trying cuisine from around the world had not been an option, much less a thing that had crossed my young self's mind. I talked about trying my first curry, my first Chinese, my first Syrian food, since waking up from the ice, and my amazement at the diversity of flavors that I hadn't even comprehended before. I relaxed into the interview, and soon we began to talk about deeper topics, like how attitudes had changed since I was young.

I spoke frankly about racial segregation. I spoke about how, when I was growing up, it was simply normal that black people had to sit at the back of the bus, that they would not be allowed to study at the same schools as whites, or use the same drinking fountains. I spoke, too, about my experience as someone with multiple illnesses and ailments, how I was an object of pity, not taken seriously or seen for my strengths, but for what I lacked: strength, good lungs, a good immune system. I spoke about how thankful I was that things are so much better now, and how while things are still not perfect, it's incredible to see the change that has been made in little under a century.

It was then that Helen asked the question that, unbeknownst to us then, would end up catapulting the interview in a direction that neither of us could have imagined: _Did you struggle at all, with adapting to life in a new age?_

I almost lied and dismissed the question. After all, men don't talk about their feelings. We do not talk about our weaknesses. That was what I was taught, growing up. But then, I thought, what kind of example would I be setting to other young men and boys, if I didn't show them that it was OK to be vulnerable? Would I be part of the problem, if I refused to talk about my darkest hours, if I contributed to the silence that already exists around men being allowed to have moments of fear? I swallowed back my nerves and reminded myself that I was living in a new era, that times were different, that it was OK _not_ to be OK, to struggle. Still, it was hard. I sat there in silence for several long seconds, and all of a sudden, I was hyper-aware that all around the country, there were millions of people waiting for me to speak. I felt the weight of my responsibility, as someone with power, as someone in the public eye, to do the right thing and break down those barriers and preconceptions.

"I struggled..." It was all I was able to say, until Helen looked at me with concern, and prompted me, gently, if I wished to say more. I forced myself to nod, and began to speak, and once I began, I found I could not stop. I told her about my battle with depression. I told her how I wandered around the remotest parts of the country, and how some days I would not be able to get up, or eat, or even brush my teeth. I told her how there were some days that I was disappointed to wake up alive. I told her about my suicide attempt, how I had tried to drown myself in the Pacific Ocean off the American coast, how even after I survived, I struggled further and ended up self-harming, cutting myself to deal with the emotional pain that I just couldn't handle. I told her everything, and then, inevitably, Helen put forward her second pivotal question, and asked me what exactly I had struggled with the most since waking up from the ice, that had fed my depression so generously.

And that, my love, was when I told the world about you. I explained that before I had gone into the ice, that I had been in a secret but beautiful relationship with the love of my life. I explained how I woke up to find that we had missed out on sixty-six years together, that my young lover was an old man now, who had lived a life without me, who had grown old while I slept in the ice sheets off the coast of Greenland. I explained how we met, just once, in your care home, and how you died later that night, leaving me with nothing but a stack of letters and the unimaginable, colossal grief of having missed out on so many years together, of parting with so many words left unsaid.

I came back to my senses to find the ABC News studio in total silence. Helen – a consummate, experienced professional – was staring at me, stunned, her throat tight and her eyes dewy as she fought to maintain her composure. She managed, finally, to say that gay marriage might be legalized soon. I told her that I would love that. If it had been possible, I would have loved for me and you to have been open about our relationship. I would have loved for us to get married, to have had our love legally recognized, to not have to hide the truth behind a veneer of lies. I remember how in one of your letters, when you had just gotten married to Peggy, you commented how you didn't believe gay people would ever be allowed to get married. I would love for you to be proven wrong.

Since the interview, the internet has been going crazy. Our relationship and my sexuality have been all over the news channels, the news websites and social media. There have been both positive and negative reactions. I've had to turn off my cell phone because it was ringing and pinging constantly. The amount of attention is unexpected, overwhelming and, honestly, quite frightening.

Nevertheless, I feel that coming out publicly was the right thing to do. If it helps a young person (or an old person) who is struggling with their sexuality to know that they're not alone, then it's worth it. If it helps break down the stigma or helps further the march toward gay rights and total equality, then it's worth it. And of course, it feels wonderful to have finally told the world about us.

Because I loved you and you loved me – and there's nothing to be ashamed about that.

Yours,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER: Wowzers, there's just one more chapter to go! I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/615733495625547776/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3
> 
> THANK YOU: Thank you for your wonderful comments on the last chapter. Reading such lovely feedback is amazing at any time, but I especially appreciate it at this difficult time living under lockdown. Thank you all for your readership and your kindness <3
> 
> THOUGHTS: To come out can be really hard. To come out in the public eye, even more so. Well done to Steve for managing it! As always, if you want to share your thoughts and feelings with me, comments and kudos are always welcome :)
> 
> TEASER: The next chapter will be the final chapter, and will see Steve reflect on the impact that loving and being loved by Bucky has had on his life, and how he intends to spend his future... 
> 
> TUMBLR: Want to sob/squee with me on Tumblr? I am [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/) over there! XD


	17. 26 June 2015

Dear Bucky,

Today, gay marriage was legalized across the US.

It's one of the happiest days of my life, and it's a moment in history that is impossible to think about without also thinking of you.

In your final letter, from the day we met that one last time, you said you had been scared that I would think you were an ugly old man. You shouldn't have worried. You were beautiful, both then and when we were together, because more important than your body was your soul, and your soul didn't dim with the passage of time. I don't regret that you grew old; I only regret that you grew old without me. I wish we could have had a life together, got married, spent decades of time together, making memories. It should have been both of us in that care home, and I'm sorry that it was not.

Knowing you has changed me forever, for better or for worse. But that's OK. I'll forever be grateful to have known you. It was a privilege to have been your friend, your lover, and your closest confidante. I'm thankful for the years we had together, and I'll gladly take a lifetime of lingering grief in exchange for those precious few years. I'll carry the memory of you, with love, for the rest of my life. I'll bear the scars on my arms, too, with pride, because they mark a period of time that was defined by my grief for you. I am not ashamed of my scars, just like I am not ashamed of you and I and that special thing we had together.

Endings are not the neat things you read about in books or see in movies. Endings are messy – in our case more than most. We never got our happy ending. I will probably never have complete closure, because we parted with words left to say. I have to learn to live like this, in a world without you in it. It's not the story I imagined when I was growing up, but it's the hand I've been dealt, and I've made peace with it.

I suppose there's not a lot left for me to do other than pledge to live the best life that I can, to be the best person I can be. I'll work hard to continue being a good SHIELD agent, a good charity worker, a good friend... maybe even a good husband to someone, one day. I'll try to be a person who you would have been proud of. I'll live life to the full, for both of us, and seize every opportunity.

My one regret is that we never told one another how we felt. We both felt it, and we both knew it, but we never said those words out loud. We were too afraid of being overheard, and perhaps we were too afraid, back then, to even admit it to ourselves. Those days are over. Today, gay men and women in America can get married. It's been long overdue, and so are these words. It's taken me over seventy years to work it out, but finally, I am free to love, free to speak my mind, free to be proud. I am no longer ashamed to say it: Bucky Barnes, I love you.

Yours forever,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER ART: You can check out the promo art for this chapter [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/616371301252268032/dear-bucky-written-by-elle1991-on-ao3-dear-bucky). Feel free to give it a re-blog if you want to give this story a signal boost <3 
> 
> MASTERPOST: I've created [this masterpost](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/post/616371576133353472/dear-bucky-read-the-fic-here-rated-mature-love) on Tumblr to promote this entire fic. If you've enjoyed this story, then please hit that "re-blog" button and share this fic with your fandom friends! <3
> 
> THANK YOU: Wow, I can't believe this series is finally finished. It's been in my head for so long, and although it's a bittersweet story, I felt deeply that it was an important one to tell. Not all stories are happy, and time is the enemy of us all, but we can all find beauty in life, and we should cherish every moment, because you never know when someone you love could die, or go missing, or how circumstances might conspire to take things away from you. Some of Steve and Bucky's feelings in this series were mirrored on my own; back in 2013, one of my best friends went missing, and he stayed missing for several horrible years, before his remains were eventually found. You learn to move on, and that doesn't mean forgetting the past, but learning to cherish the present, and all the people you love who are alive right now; you hold them close, whilst still remembering the loved one you lost. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this series to its conclusion and follow both Bucky and Steve on their journeys. It has been an honour and a privilege to share this work with you. Thank you to all of you who have commented, left kudos and sent me messages of encouragement both on here and on Tumblr - feedback is really important to writers and I appreciate it immensely; you're the kindest and most awesome readers I could wish for <3
> 
> ANY QUESTIONS: I hope this final chapter has provided a sense of closure, completeness and catharsis. If anything is unclear though, or if you have any questions at all, then just leave a comment and I will get back to you.
> 
> ALL STORY ART AND Q&As: You can see all things Dear Bucky-related on my Tumblr account by searching the "dear bucky" tag [here](https://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/tagged/dear%20bucky).
> 
> KEEP IN TOUCH: Don't be a stranger, keep in touch! I am on Tumblr under the name [ao3-elle1991](http://ao3-elle1991.tumblr.com/).
> 
> FUTURE STORIES: If you want to get an email whenever I post something new, then click on [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle1991) and become a user subscriber. Be aware that this is different from the Subscribe button on the top of _this_ page, which is for _this story only_ :)

**Author's Note:**

> OTHER STUFF I'VE WRITTEN:
> 
> [Fearless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8346310) (291,275 words) - A Black Widow origin story, exploring Natasha's life as a Red Room Academy student, KGB agent, SHIELD agent and Avenger - and how she grew to be so much more than any of those labels.
> 
> [Steve And Bucky's Kinky Alphabet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776473) (176,544 words) - 26 chapters of alphabetised porn-with-plot featuring Steve and Bucky. Or: the dark fic where JARVIS goes rogue and kidnaps the Avengers, and Steve and Bucky fuck a lot and fall in love.
> 
> [Time After Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652011) (124,026 words) - Steve, Iraq war veteran and long-time loner, feels like his life is stuck in a rut. So, when Natasha invites him to a masquerade party at a kink club, he throws caution to the wind and decides to go. There, he meets the mysterious Winter Soldier.
> 
> [Hot Summer Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215473) (105,218 words) - Steve enjoys two beautiful weeks in the picturesque English village of Thornton-le-Dale, during the hottest British summer for 50 years. The little B&B he is staying at is gorgeous - as is his fellow guest Bucky, the newly-single hunk staying in the room next door.
> 
> [Vengeance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7285612) (51,573 words) - Bucky falls from the train. Steve will do anything to take revenge on those responsible for his death - even if it means joining HYDRA.
> 
> [Secrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704965) (40,706 words) - Bucky is a man with a big secret: for 70 years, he was HYDRA's weapon. Now, he is trying to move on with his life and is forming a relationship with Tony. All seems to be going well, until a security breach at SHIELD threatens to expose his past.
> 
> [Memento](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268359) (31,043 words) - Steve awakes from a coma in a post-apocalyptic world - with no memory. Will he ever remember his past, or why he feels so drawn to fellow survivor Bucky?
> 
> [Dear Steve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904116) (16,767 words) - What if Bucky never fell from the train and was never captured and frozen by HYDRA? Dear Steve is a series of love letters written by Bucky for Steve, starting in 1945.
> 
> [The Penthouse Suite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339414) (15,873 words) - Sex worker Bucky has the chance to earn $5,000 in one night. All he has to do is go to the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel and spend the night with his client, Steve. The catch? Steve is a massive pervert, intent on using Bucky to satisfy every single one of his many debauched kinks.
> 
> [Love Is Blind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366393) (14,512 words) - After a mission goes horribly wrong, Natasha is left completely blind. As SHIELD scientists desperately seek a cure, Natasha must come to terms with her disability.
> 
> [At Your Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624802) (12,931 words) - Clint and Natasha lose a bet. Phil gets them to dress up and act out some of his many, many Captain America fanboy fantasies.
> 
> [The Adventures Of Steve Rogers, Newsboy Extraordinaire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153170) (11,161 words) - 7-year-old Steve has Selective Mutism. When Steve finds himself confronting a dangerous criminal, will he find the courage within himself to save the day - and even find his voice?
> 
> [Special Delivery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28528866) (5,052 words) - It all started as a dumb joke. Bucky would order ridiculous items from the grocery store, and the cute delivery guy, Steve, would deliver them. Now the joke has gotten way out of hand - and Bucky has to convince everyone that he is NOT a perverted weirdo with a lust for vegetables.
> 
> [The End Of The Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7088617) (3,433 words) - Bucky falls from the train to his assumed death. Steve has to come to terms with a world without him in it.
> 
> [Turkish Oil Wrestling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7013452) (2,620 words) - Steve and Bucky decide to have a wrestling match to settle an old score. Cue them stripping down to their pants, getting oiled up and engaging in a vigorous wrestling match that leaves them both hot and sweaty.
> 
> [In Memoriam: James Buchanan Barnes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7924684) (120 words) - A grief-stricken Steve writes a poem in honour of his best friend.
> 
> And more... Click my profile to see all my fics! <3


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